Relax, take a breath, take a read on some of the poetry that Suzi Q. Smith has been sharing during the coronavirus pandemic. Her “Poems for the End of the World” are a gift, a diversion, a distraction; supremely existential, fully resolved, loaded with a casual kind of hope.
They are of a crisis, but not about a crisis. Instead, they remind us to consider the moments before, during and after this thing we are all going through. They ask you to surrender to the present, and then remind you that the present is the product of the past and the future and of now.
They come from experience — of Smith’s as a writer, singer, slammer, activist, parent, as a performer, a teacher of kids in Denver public schools, an observer of time and nature, as a witness to 21st-century life.
One of the city’s leading word artists, she shares these works on and she agreed to let us share them with our readers here because — as she says in the Q&A that follows — “Now is a time to focus on what we have, what we know, and who we are.”
“Let it Let”
pressing weight into grief
weight into weight
a trap
door perhaps pressing my way
into the crack the in between stone
rolling surrender to the potential of its crushing
or my own strength
or miracle of movement
maybe a door opens
collapses into my breath
and aren’t we all quite bored with tears
especially small ones
selfish ones
that have my heart running scared
the small close droplets are the ones that make you crazy
the echo of those unwept howlings
the ting of a valve until it stops
let the blood come rushing back into feeling
let even the boring tears fall
even the predictable flurries
even the most self pitiable
even the small small blood
the bitter and petty shameful
let it let
let myself surrender to the river
to the ocean
let me become water
let me hold only what is mine to hold
let it root and flourish
let the rest drown
let me remember surviving it
as I watch it wash away
“Becoming Memory”
what is a face
but a flash of light?
a life.
fragile, fierce, temporary.
death comes as a thief in the night
and sometimes our bodies thrash against it
and sometimes the bell rings too early,
undressed faces
still finding their shape.
you can tell by the smile
whether or not a person
has been loved
correctly
at least once
which is, of course, too small,
a flame not enough to warm hands
but a spark enough to start a fire.
even the most rapturous fire
is temporary.
even howling, it is going to die.
even in death,
we remember at least flashes,
at least moments,
in light.
“Here’s What I Know”
how small a world is when dying
or falling
or recovering
or pulling the edges of a knowledge
strewn about among the weeds
I love the weeds
the way they survive and flower
I blow wishes against their seeds
and spread
I love the way
the real ones come thru
with open doors and made plates
I dance like an earthworm emerging in a spring storm
I love the ladybug I saw move among the leaves
escaping the spinning blade I was approaching with
the ladybug spared me from killing it
and let me see myself
not kill it
and already I loved the ladybug
and especially now
I love it more.
“The Air is Dry Here”
Obviously I fantasize
about other lives/lands
where I am not asked to leave at least
half of myself (and Of Course the half
of myself that loves myself) quietly
d(r)ying out on the back porch
I dream of oceans and islands
the strong arms of beautiful men
with clean, dark eyes
and (At Least) one of them saying to me
Welcome Home.
“When I Am Free”
Assume there was never a plan for my freedom
I hold my hands out, open palmed,
snap off each finger and say:
Here. Eat.
Laugh, fear brings out the mob in people.
An unsheathed ear.
An unleashed fear.
An opening, unveiled mirror.
I’m not claiming to be any type of Messiah.
Who knows loneliness better than a free-drawn clear breath?
I shatter whole buildings that would have me bend to enter
and imagine myself free:
An arrow with wings
who shot herself
into the sky,
piercing and open,
a radical act of love for air
and night and blue and speed.
What is freedom but a devotion to opening?
A madness unconfined?
A clear note played long and wet?
A soft landing in soft black soil?
The kiss of a honeybee?
When I am free
(and here I sing ooooo and leap into a holy ghost dance)
When I am free
(and here even the angels laugh with me in my delight)
When I am free
honey, you have never heard such a hallelujah,
nectar never tasted so sweet.
“Aunties Always Know”
sometimes my ancestors
holler
right in my ear
“girl if you don’t go get you some joy!”
and i will,
i will.
i want to know joy
this well, this body full of
yes, please and thank you
this blessed rain
let it pour over my upturned face
right into my mouth.
really been in the desert though.
this really been a love drought though.
of course i’m thirsty.
ashamed at all i have drunk
that was not water.
“A Song for Red Mornings in Spring”
let this be the book of the rooster
of the eastern sky
call of the robin breast
of the drained morning and hoards running
let it be the wind at backs and feet stirring
let it be unstoppable
a wave
a high ground seeking
a knowing
a beginning as much as an end
let the trees fall where they must
flying back behind a flooding ground
an answer of blue sky coming
let me know and keep knowing
trust the hips and feet to move forward even unwavering
let the sun rise and see me soaring
let me be forgiven for all I leave
at my feet for all I cannot carry or convince
let me keep running
until I get there let me get there.
A sampling of Suzi Q. Smith’s “Poems for the End of the World.” Read more at .
Q. I love the poems you’re writing. They’re comforting and they come along at just the right time. They inspire us to think deeply in a moment when we actually have time to do just that.
Suzi Q: I actually started writing these poems last year, and calling them “Poems for the End of the World” because there were so many small world-endings in my personal life, and I was spending time in nature, and the Amazon was on fire; the theme of birth and death and ending and beginning emerged. Some of the poems I’m sharing have been written since the pandemic began, and some are from before.
Q. I have to say, they’ve encouraged me to think about this quarantine differently. There’s death and fear of death in the air, but I’ve also started to see it as a romantic moment, beautiful in the way it reminds us that joy and suffering are necessary parts of the human condition.
A: Poetry offers us an opportunity to offer language to the unlanguageable. To find beauty where none is immediately apparent. This requires a slow and careful heart.
Q: They’re also inspiring. So many of us feel pressure not to waste this time. What do you think it means for someone to use this time wisely?
A: My favorite ministry is The Nap Ministry, founded by Tricia Hersey, who teaches the value of rest as a tool of liberation. I believe that rest is productive. I also believe that slowing down and spending intentional time getting to know yourself and your loved ones is an important tool in cultivating wisdom.
Q: Can you report any “corona miracles,” as some of my friends are lightly calling them? This is what I mean: On a grand scale, I’ve been in contact with people I haven’t spoken to for many years. On a minor level, I painted my living room ceiling, which I’d been putting off for a decade, and I learned to make bagels — on the same day.
A: While I miss my students terribly, I am grateful for the opportunity to continue working with them online. In the meantime, I am writing, I am cooking slow, and I now have time to dance every day. My sister and I just talked about our garden plans, and she and her husband are building a chicken coop.
Q: How can you write with all this noise going on?
A: Writing is part of how I keep myself well, it’s how I process everything I observe and feel. I have to write, especially with all this noise going on. I have to find the quiet in myself.
Q: What’s making you angry or frustrated about this situation?
A: The hardest part of this experience for me is watching so many people I know lose loved ones, and not being able to grieve collectively. People can’t have proper funerals right now, which makes the grieving process that much more difficult.
Also, I’m frustrated with the hoarding of wealth and resources. In this crisis, we are seeing clearly the stark gaps in access to wealth and resources, and the most vulnerable people in our society are not protected. As a community, as a society, we have enough for everyone to be taken care of quite well and I would love to see us move in that direction going forward.
Q: Are you changed by this?
A: I am an introvert and a writer, so social isolation is my normal. However, I believe we will all be changed by this experience, and hopefully for the better. I hope we move forward with greater compassion, kindness, deeper and more authentic relationships, and a respect for our interconnectedness with each other and our environment.
Q: Can you recommend other sources of comfort, that are right for the times?
A: I am longing to swim in the ocean and squeeze sand between my toes, and nature documentaries help me to remember and hold this longing. I listen to Donny Hathaway, Nina Simone, Joni Mitchell and Prince, because all of them have voices that contain worlds and worlds.
For wisdom and insight, I have been reading Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes and Octavia Butler, because they help me to feel ready for whatever is coming next.
Q: You are a mother and an educator. What anxiety are you seeing in young people, if any?
A: Now is a time to focus on what we have, what we know, and who we are. It’s imperative that people have the means to express themselves creatively, to ask questions and articulate their emotional experiences.
I also believe that even in the hardest of times, we can find beauty and humor, both of which help us survive. Maybe that’s why we’re all watching “Tiger King.”
Q. Which of these “Poems for the End of the World” is your favorite. Why?
A: I definitely can’t choose a favorite — it would change with my mood.
